


Fairgrounds

by yeaka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, First Time, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 00:37:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco drags Gregory to a muggle fair, with possibly unexpected results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fairgrounds

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.
> 
> A/N: This isn’t properly British.

The ‘money’ in Gregory’s pocket feels weird—crumbled paper and too-light coins. But Draco won’t carry muggle money, obviously, and Crabbe ditched them again. Gregory off-handedly suggested Imperius-ing every vendor requesting cash, but Draco was quick to point out that being caught using Unforgiveables in front of muggles would not be a wise idea, with their families already under heavy watch as they are. This sparked a rather lengthy discussion about just how much they should be using their wands, despite how often they usually do at home where the magic’s too thick to tell.

Originally, they were going to levitate tickets out of passerby pockets, but in retrospect, it seems a risky idea. Not that Gregory minds, mind you. Climbing over the back fence has proved a much better idea—this way, he gets to help Draco up (first, naturally) over the high chain-link fence. He holds Draco’s feet up, then legs, then thighs, under the guise of steadying and spotting him. Draco’s over the top before Gregory has a chance to cup Draco’s ass—the place he really wants to hold. On the other side, Draco tumbles off surprisingly gracefully and brushes off his faux-leather jacket and dark jeans. Gregory’s in plain trousers and a green t-shirt with a navy vest—the exact ones Draco picked out for him. Muggle shopping (and watching Draco try on clothes) was a whole other adventure in itself; one Gregory is sure to revisit later tonight, when he’s alone in his room, with his hand.

Gregory almost falls on his face on the other side, the crumbling dirt and fading grass hardly keeping him up. Draco rolls his eyes and grumbles, “Are you trying to get us caught?” as though he’d even care if they got thrown out of muggle fairgrounds.

They’re in a cluster of short trees in the back, behind an old, white tent. Or a tent that used to be white, anyway, but is now faded and stained. After straightening out his hair and asking if he looks alright (to Gregory’s obligatory nod) Draco struts out around it.

Gregory follows like he always does. He’s good at following.

Draco thought, based on no information whatsoever, that if they went this late, the fair would be emptier. It’s just about dinnertime, and the sky is already starting to grey. The area around the large, open grounds is fairly urban, and the muggle streetlights and surrounding buildings keep the true blackness away. Inside the fair walls, the crow is pulsating: large and busy, and loud and obnoxious.

“Eugh,” Draco mutters, a few steps in, and Gregory almost walks into his side. “They’re everywhere... is that barf? Disgusting!” Gregory glances to where Draco’s looking, but it takes a while to decipher one mess from the other, what with the popcorn and cotton candy all over the twisting pavement and trampled dirt, under the thick herd of people. People are squeezing every which way, chattering animatedly, and various vendors from various tents are trying to shout their wares over the ruckus. Behind the closest row, a roller coaster towers overhead, occasionally erupting in roaring screams.

Gregory’s never been on a roller coaster before. But he thinks he’d like to, as he stares at it. He doesn’t say anything, though, because what they actually do is up to Draco, like most things. And Gregory will probably like what Draco decides, anyway.

Draco arbitrary drawls, “This way,” and grabs Gregory’s wrist. Gregory lets himself be dragged off to the left and pulled through the tight shroud of people. He stays a little behind Draco, mostly so his flushed cheeks won’t be discovered. The night air is slightly cold, and Draco’s hand is warm right below his sleeve. At first, it seems like Draco’s going to let go after getting the gist of their direction, but it quickly becomes apparent that if he does that, they may never see each other again. Gregory loses count after a few minutes of how many people have bumped into him (or how many people he’s bumped into, having broad shoulders and being somewhat tall.) Once, a scrawny redhead bumps into Draco and spills a kernel of popcorn onto his jacket, and Draco shouts, “Watch the fuck where you’re going!” And from there his mood only darkens.

So Gregory quickens his pace and steps in front of Draco, to better part the crowd for them. Partially because his instinct is to protect Draco. And partially because otherwise, Gregory knows, he’ll end up in a fistfight on Draco’s behalf, and he’ll definitely win, and he has no idea how effective muggle law enforcement is. What he does know is that he has no idea how to break out of a muggle prison without using magic in front of them, and if either his parents or Draco’s—or the Ministry, by this point in their lives—find out about this, they’ll be in far worse trouble.

When the relatively linear (though very twisted) pathway splits into a fork, Gregory halts. Draco walks into his back with a startled, “Oomph!” And then grumbles at him. Gregory turns around, waiting for further direction. (Because Merlin forbid he decide something for himself.)

Draco peers around him and drawls, “What’s over there?”

Gregory glances in that direction, with as little idea as Draco. “Uhh... looks like some more food stalls.” The aroma that wafts off them is both enticing and cheap.

“I’m not hungry yet,” Draco says dismissively, looking to the other side. “Those roller coaster things look awful; I don’t know why anyone would want to do that. And I certainly wouldn’t trust a muggle mechanism to not squish me to a pancake at the bottom. And I don’t want to be crammed in with a bunch of terrified, whiny muggles pissing themselves, anyway.” Gregory’s face falls as Draco continues to rant, “And that thing with the boxes attached to the poll in the distance, that just keeps going up and down—what’s the point of that? I mean, I know these idiots can’t fly, but they’re not even simulating it right!”

Gregory nods vacantly, glancing over Draco’s shoulder. Across the mound of ratty, spotty grass, there’s another path, littered on either side with view-blocking kiosks, and therefore Gregory can’t really tell kiosks of what.

“What’re you looking at?” Draco glances over his shoulder and promptly rolls his eyes. “Oh alright, we’ll go the way you want, but only because the other two ways are awful.”

Gregory looks back instantly and starts to mumbles, “I didn’t say we had to—” but Draco’s already pushing past him, climbing the short hill.

They squeeze into the thrum of people through two bright-red kiosks, and Draco glances at the various stands in evident confusion. “What are th—” Then he stops dead, grabs Gregory’s wrist again, and drags him forcibly across the path, to a large station with a myriad of stuffed animals hanging from the ceiling. There’s a short wooden counter in the front with small, rubber balls in a basket, and there’s a pyramid of stacked, plastic-looking glasses against the back wall. The burly, bald man behind the counter moves immediately to the end Draco approaches, but Draco cuts him off before he can say anything. “How much is that one?” Draco points at a fluffy grey dragon, about the size of Gregory’s entire torso.

The man looks up at it and laughs. “How much? Son, you’ve gotta win these!”

Draco scrunches up his nose. Gregory isn’t sure if it’s from being told he can’t have something or being called ‘son’ by a muggle. “How do I win it?”

The man points behind him at the wall of cups. “You knock them over. Seven pounds for three balls. For the first row, you can get one of these,” he stops, pointing at a chain of palm-sized toys on the other side of the counter, “second row you get these,” another pile, slightly larger than the first, “and it goes on. You need to knock them all over twice to get the big ones. All ten rows, twice.” He gestures vaguely at the dragon. “The cups get reset between throws if you knock any over.”

“If?” Draco scoffs. He turns to Gregory and, before Gregory can do anything, dives a hand into Gregory’s trousers’ front pocket, fishing around for the money. Gregory raises his arm to make it easier, staring and trying not to turn red. He’s glad the pockets are mostly on the side and don’t reach over at all to the front. If Draco’s delicate fingers get anywhere near that area, Gregory is going to need a washroom break immediately.

Gregory’s sort of grateful when Draco pulls out a few wads of paper—the money that Gregory totally doesn’t understand. He hands the bald man one sheet of paper, and the man hands him a few coins back. Draco steps over to the basket of balls, bumping Gregory rudely out of the way.

Gregory savours the contact more than he should and steps aside.

The man in the stall steps over to the far corner, crossing his arms confidently. Draco glares at the cups, as if daring them to stay up. Then he holds up the ball and throws it hard.

It hits the cups and falls uselessly to the floor. “What?” Draco immediately exclaims, sneering at the bald man. “You cheat, those are stuck together!”

“No cheating,” the man says, somehow both defensively and with a smile. “Of course they’re heavy, but with enough strength, they’ll go down.”

Draco spits furiously, “You liar, I hit them dead on!”

The man shrugs. “You have two more balls, fancy another go?”

Draco opens his mouth as if to yell more, then abruptly spins around on his foot and whines to Gregory, “I want that dragon!” His eyebrows draw up, managing a scowl both affronted and hurt at once.

Gregory grunts without thinking, “I’ll win it for you,” because that’s what he does. He wins the fights Draco can’t, and Draco gets all the prizes.

Gregory doesn’t need stuffed animals, anyway. He has Draco to look at, even if he can’t touch or play with Draco. He can imagine. He often does.

He pictures himself as Draco’s prince charming, riding in on a white horse or however those stupid fairy tales are. Draco’s stuck-up and spoilt enough to be a princess. Less so than he used to be after everything they’ve been through, but he’s recovering and is always _Draco_. Draco steps aside so Gregory can stand right in the middle. Then Draco crosses his arms and glares murderously at the stall manager.

Gregory stretches his arm back and throws the small rubber ball with all his might.

It crashes into the stack of plastic cups and instantly knocks them all over, loudly clattering everything to the floor. The man whirls around, looking shocked; he hadn’t even been watching. Neither had Draco. But Draco grins smugly and says smugly, “Set them back up for our third shot.” 

The bald man takes a few more minutes to look incredulously down at the floor, before he slowly starts to gather them up and replace them. Gregory can tell from the way the man holds them, as big as he is, that they’re weighted. He glances sideways and does a quick once-over of Draco but doesn’t see any wands sticking out. His own strength, then. His eyes slide back up to Draco’s face when he notices a proud grin on those pink lips. Gregory stares at them maybe a little too long, before the man clears his throat and the cups are restacked.

Gregory throws the last ball a few centimeters up, catching it in his hand. Then he throws it quick as lighting, straight into the tower, which topples over instantly. The stall owner simply stares.

Draco steps forward and puts both palms down on the counter. He prissily demands, “My dragon?”

The bald man scratches his head but begrudgingly bends to pick up the cups again. When he turns back around to face them, he’s scowling.

Draco’s grinning haughtily and waits for the man to untie his prize. As soon as it’s free, scoops it up, and it looks ludicrous in his arms. It basically blocks his whole body from view, making him seem smaller and childish.

But Gregory still feels a large swell of pride in his chest and has to resist the urge to throw his arm over Draco’s shoulders as they retreat. It takes all of Draco’s arms to hold the toy; his chin has to tilt up to see over the dragon’s fluffy shoulder. He leads them back behind the kiosks, onto the messy ground.

Gregory follows, periodically pushing people out of the way. Draco keeps walking until they reach a larger tent to duck behind, now sandwiched between that and the large, concrete side of a building. Gregory stops when Draco does, and Draco turns, grabbing Gregory’s arm and pushing him into place. Gregory stands where Draco puts him. Once Gregory’s effectively blocking the view to the outside, Draco fishes his wand out of his pants, and mutters, “Reducio!”

The Dragon shrinks in his arms, getting smaller and smaller, until it drops into the palm of his hand. Draco puts it inside his coat pocket, zipping it up. “Can’t carry that thing around all day,” he drawls. “It’d look ridiculous.” As if this whole thing isn’t ridiculous. Then he decides, “I’m hungry.”

“Me too,” Gregory says.

Draco rolls his eyes. “You’re always hungry.”

Gregory shrugs. That’s mostly true. He sniffs at the air and has a hard time distinguishing the greasy smells—popcorn, and hotdogs, and... something.

“I want something sweet,” Draco says. Then he raises his hands to Gregory’s chest and shoos him back into the open. Gregory lets himself be shoved, savouring the contact.

They rejoin the muggle crowd and walk for a short while, while Draco glares or shows deep disinterest over every little thing, and Gregory hopes another prize catches his eye. Gregory wants to win everything for Draco, provide everything, _be there_. When they go back to Malfoy Manor, Gregory wants to see hints of himself all over Draco’s room. If Draco ever moves out, Gregory wants to be the flatmate candidate, if Draco will ever have one. But Draco seems put-off by the games, even though he technically got what he wanted. After a bit of wandering, the stalls they pass start containing food.

Gregory grunts, “Donuts?” But either Draco doesn’t hear him over the general din, or Draco just ignores him. Either way, he grabs Gregory’s hand again, probably to not get lost.

Frankly, Gregory would be fine to eat anything. He’s not picky. Draco is, and Gregory’s stomach grumbles while they hover across from several different vendors, until Draco points at a particularly bright stand next to an open tent full of benches. “What’s that?”

Gregory squints and mutters, “Oh, cotton candy.”

“What?” Draco stops dead and turns to look at him.

“Er, cotton candy,” Gregory repeats, unable to describe it any better. Crabbe’s mom brought them some, once. Crabbe’s family eats worse than Gregory’s, and both of them are worse than Draco’s.

Draco rolls his eyes and asks, “Well what’s in it?”

“Uh,” Gregory says. He has no idea. “Sugar?” It tastes like sugar. What else is in it? Cotton? He shrugs and says, “It’s good.”

Draco looks exasperated but tugs Gregory over to it. The pimply brunette behind the counter asks what they’d like, and Draco points at one of the wads of candyfloss sticking out of the spindle at the side. “Whatever that is.”

“One or two?” The girl asks.

Draco says, “One.”

Gregory says, “I’m hungry.”

Draco grumbles, “Well wait and see if I don’t like it; then you can have it.”

Gregory nods as though this is perfectly reasonable. But he’s used to Draco’s leftovers and wouldn’t expect Draco to dispose of his own. Then Gregory says, “I think I’m also going to get a hotdog,” and moves to leave—there’s a hotdog cart just on the other side of the path.

But Draco grabs his arm and says, “You’re not leaving me here!” He looks absolutely scandalized.

“Uh, okay.”

Draco nods curtly and turns back to the brunette. “I want one. That one.”

The girl says, “Three pounds and five pence, please.”

Draco reaches back into Gregory’s pocket and fishes out more coins. Then he hands a bunch over, although he takes an inordinate amount of time to sort through them. The girl hands him the stick full of bright pink cotton candy. Gregory has to subtly lead Draco across the way to reach the hotdog stand. “How do you eat this stuff?”

Gregory’s not good with words, so he rips off a strip from the side and shoves it in his mouth. It melts on his tongue in a sticky mess as Draco drawls, “Hey!” And then he holds it away protectively.

Gregory grunts, “Sorry.”

There’s a line of about three people at the hotdog stand. Gregory looks over at Draco; if he gets impatient, Gregory would be happy to shove everyone else out of the way. But Draco’s busy tentatively picking at his candyfloss, so Gregory waits his turn.

At the counter, he orders a hotdog, and pulls a handful of coins out of his pocket. The cashier fishes the correct coins out and shoots him a dirty look. Gregory returns it, and the cashier shies back. Gregory’s yet to be in a physical fight he couldn’t win, and this scrawny muggle seems to guess that.

Draco drags them back across the way to the tables under a striped tent with wooden benches attached to them. All the tables are taken, but Gregory glares at a young couple that are taking up a whole table to themselves, and they shy away and leave. Draco and Gregory sit down in the middle of it, one on either side, and Gregory continues to scowl dangerously at anyone who looks like they might join.

Then he eats his hotdog in peace and tries not to stare too much at the way Draco licks his cotton candy. He pulls out a stray chunk here and there, and then darts his tongue out to wet it, lapping repeatedly at the melting sugar. Then he sucks on the thick strands like a lollipop, cheeks hollowing and lips red. Draco’s tongue has always been the death of Gregory—it’s kept him up more than a few nights, picturing Draco on his knees, tonguing Gregory’s cock like the kitten he’s playing. Draco opens his mouth just a little too wide when he stuffs the candyfloss in and licks his fingers just a little messily. It sticks to his lips and he’s constantly licking them, wet and pink and alluring. He’s eating it far more erotically than how Gregory showed him. Gregory’s glad they’re sitting at a table, so Draco can’t see what he really thinks of this different method.

Gregory eats sloppily, he knows, and finishes his hotdog while Draco’s still got half left. Gregory wipes off his mouth while Draco sucks a small chunk of pink fluff into his mouth, looking far too innocent. Gregory shifts uncomfortably and tries to look across the way, at an awkwardly-dressed clown handing out balloons. It’s a complete boner-killer; perfect.

Then Draco makes a slurping noise, and Gregory looks back around, cheeks flushed at the sight of Draco languidly licking pink dust off his palm. Draco notices before he can turn away and raises an eyebrow. “What are you staring at?” Gregory opens his mouth, but, as usual, isn’t fast enough to answer Draco’s question, so Draco answers it for him. “You had your own food, quit eyeing mine.”

Gregory latches onto that theory. Yes, it’s the food he’s lusting after, not Draco, gorgeous Draco, who’s sucking his fingers one by one, like a porn star. “Er... are you going to finish that?”

Draco still has his pinky in his mouth as he rolls his eyes and shoves the candyfloss forward. Gregory grabs a chunk off and pops it ungracefully into his mouth. It tastes sort of sickly when there’s too much of it at once like that, but it’s better than keeping his stupid mouth open, and the sooner Draco finishes, the sooner he’ll stop bringing Gregory dangerously close to creaming his pants. He grabs another chunk for this reason, and then another, and Draco sneers at him, “Hey, hey, you pig. I didn’t say you could have that much.”

But now there’s only a tiny bit left, so it was worth it. Gregory chews his saccharine slop and tries not to be too gross about it, while Draco licks down to the stick, twirling it in his fingers. He licks the rest of the cotton candy against it, tongue flattening in long, hard strokes. The pink mess gives way beneath him, and Draco laps up the rest of the sticky mess, tonguing it in a way that makes it impossible for Gregory to not picture Draco doing that to his cock.

When Draco’s done, he tosses Gregory the stick. Gregory mashes it up with his hotdog wrapper, designated (as usual) to find the trashcan. They pass one on the way out of the tent, and Gregory tries to keep two steps ahead of Draco, at least until his arousal subsides.

Draco doesn’t immediately say where to go next, so Gregory randomly picks a direction and starts knocking people out of the way. He feels Draco’s hand on his arm and knows he’s leading the way. Draco tugs him once and Gregory stops, and Draco nods at an ice cream stand. “Should we get ice cream?”

Gregory doesn’t answer, because he knows that’s an obligatory question. Draco’s just buying time while he decides if he himself would like ice cream. Gregory tries not to picture Draco’s pink tongue buried in a pile of creamy vanilla icing, the white streams dribbling down his chin and sliding down his hot throat.

Gregory shivers. He couldn’t handle that. He’s seen Draco eat ice cream before, and it’s no more innocent than the way he eats cotton candy. Gregory almost breathes an audible sigh of relief when Draco decides, “...No, maybe later.”

Then he shoves Gregory’s back, and Gregory starts walking again. They get to another split path, and Draco suddenly jumps in front, pulling him along by the sleeve. “What the heck is that thing?” he asks, still walking. He points, and Gregory follows.

“Uhh...” It looks like a big hamster wheel, but Gregory isn’t quite stupid enough to say that. It’s a great, rotating metal circle, towering over an assortment of small tents between them, lit with bright lights attached to all the bows, and boxed off carts with glass windows all around it. Frankly, it doesn’t look more exciting than a roller coaster, but far be it from him to argue with Draco. Draco seems to disagree completely and drags Gregory adamantly towards it.

Gregory would follow Draco to the ends of the Earth and follows him to the line up of what a large, colourful sign deems, ‘The Ferris Wheel.’

The line is only a few people long. The sky is almost completely black by this point, and the lamps and glowing signs between tents and rides are the real illumination. The Ferris Wheel practically shines against the darkness and plays a dull, droning sort of tune that sounds eerie to Gregory. There’s a man at the front of the line that holds a metal gate closed.

They have to wait a few minutes before the wheel stops turning, and one of the boxes stops just above the ground. The man at the gate walks over to open the door of the cart, and a young muggle couple step out, giggling and holding hands. They’re escorted out an opening in the gate on the other side, and then the man lets the first few people in line—an older woman with her grandchild—into it. Then the man turns the wheel, and empties and re-fills up the next cart. At the fifth cart, it’s their turn, and the man ushers them inside the gate. Draco steps back into Gregory and glares when the man tries to touch his arm, and the man lurches back in concern. Gregory helps Draco into the cart instead. The man looks at them like they’re crazy and shuts the door behind them.

Inside, the box is small, with a little bench on either side they both take, and their knees brush in the space between. The benches are covered in cheap upholstery, and the inside is faintly metallic, though the outside is painted red. There are large windows on both sides, and the door’s locked from the outside. If Gregory stretches out his arms, he could touch both sets of glass. Instead he sits still, while Draco adjusts in his seat and tries to get comfy. After a few seconds, he throws his legs up into Gregory’s lap, and Gregory blushes and lets them stay there. Draco grins in victory, evidently comfortable, and settles in.

Not a minute later, the cart jerks and swings a little, and Gregory grabs Draco’s legs so as to keep him steady. It begins to lift in the air, and Gregory can see the muggle man’s head disappear as they go higher. The cart stays level and rocks slightly. Before they can get very high and either of them bother to look out the windows properly, it stops again, probably to let more muggles in. Draco growls in frustration at this and mutters, “Why are they stopping? There should be a better way to do this—how slow.”

Gregory nods and grunts, “Yeah.” And he tries not to notice that Draco’s heel is digging into his crotch, and Draco looks absolutely gorgeous in the pale light, spread out like a king and dressed in tight, muggle clothes, that don’t hide his delicious form like robes do. Robes are the only reason Gregory’s ever passed any of his classes—otherwise he’d never manage to look away.

“Honestly—why do people even ride this thing?” Draco continues, seemingly oblivious to the fact that this ride was his idea. “Is this supposed to be exciting?” The cart jerks again and begins to rise maddeningly slowly, the odd carnival music muffled by the walls.

Gregory shrugs. “S’posed to be romantic, maybe?”

Draco looks at him as though he’s sprouted another head. “What?”

Gregory turns a horrible shade of pink. “Er—the other people on it were a couple, so... I dunno...” He fidgets slightly, careful not to dislodge Draco’s feet. When that piercing stare becomes too much, he tries to switch topics, and suggests, “Maybe it’s for the view at the top?”

“At this rate, we’ll only have it for a few minutes,” Draco grumbles. Their cart is still again. “Hardly worth it.”

They sit in silence as it jerks back to movement, then stops again, then starts rising, then stops again. Gregory glances out the window, and Draco sneers, “We’re not at the top yet; the beams would be straight.”

Gregory nods, and on the next plateau, he suggests, “You wanna be at the top longer?”

Draco looks slightly surprised. “Well that’d be the point, wouldn’t it? You want to stay at the top?”

Gregory’s not used to being asked what he wants, and is just as taken aback as Draco looked at his ability to produce original thought. “S’up to you.” Although really, if it means more time like this with Draco, then he’d stay at the top all night.

 

This time when the cart stops, Gregory glances out the window, and the beams are straight. The cart swings slightly, and Draco mumbles quietly, “Yeah.”

So Gregory fishes out his wand and casts a basic (though powerful) sticking spell on the machinery. They’re old enough now, and this shouldn’t be harmful enough for the Ministry to register. He’s not sure he got it right at first, but after a few minutes, the cart’s still where it is, and down below there’s a sudden, muffled cry.

Draco laughs, “You scared the muggles.”

Gregory smiles at having made Draco smile and puts his wand back in his pocket.

Draco shifts over in his seat to peer out the window, down at the line below. Gregory shifts with him, a tad put-out when Draco’s legs slip from his lap. Draco points at the growing crowd, which looks increasingly frantic. “They look tiny from up here,” Draco muses. “As they are.” What looks like a middle-aged woman (but could really be anything from this height and angle) shrieks loudly, and Draco laughs again.

Gregory’s still eyeing the crowd when Draco mumbles, “Ooh, look at that thing,” and jabs his finger at the window. Gregory looks in the direction, but his vision is cut off by the edge of the window on his side. “That thing there, that looks like a boat...” Gregory tries to tilt off his seat, closer to the middle, but he still can’t see anything even remotely resembling a boat. He scans the fairgrounds hopelessly before Draco scowls, “Oh, come over here,” and he grabs Gregory’s jacket and tugs him forward. Gregory tumbles into Draco and is abruptly shoved off.

Then Draco turns back to the window, and Gregory presses against his back, peering over his shoulder.

“Over there,” Draco points again, and this time Gregory sees it, far off in the distance. It looks like a big boat suspended in air, probably around the same size as the Ferris Wheel, except it seems to just swing back and forth, rather than up and down.

Gregory grunts, “Yeah, I see it,” and continues to stare out the window, simply because Draco still is. He watches the roller coasters go up and down in the distance, and the tiny, ant-like people scurry between stalls.

Draco turns around so suddenly that Gregory doesn’t have time to move—not that he has particularly sharp reflexes, anyway—and Draco licks a hard line up his cheek.

Gregory splutters in surprise and jerks backwards, hand shooting to his cheek. Draco rolls his eyes. “Oh, don’t pretend you weren’t thinking about me doing that since we ate—I saw how you were looking at me.”

Shell-shocked, Gregory grunts, “Wh—... N-no, uh...” Fuck. He’s not good with words at the best of times, and this is easily the worst of times. His eyes are probably wide as saucers.

Draco sniffs disappointedly. “What, so I’m not hot?”

“N-no!” Gregory doesn’t have the will to actually shuffle backwards, and they’re still sitting so close that their legs are touching, and he can’t stop staring at Draco. Draco’s grey eyes are a complex mix of determination and fear, and Gregory stumbles to say, “I-I mean, y-you’re very hot, uh...”

The corner of Draco’s mouth twitches into a coy smile, and he drawls, “Oh? How so?”

Gregory gulps. This can’t seriously be happening. They never talk about this. Things like this. Even when Gregory heard that rumour about Draco sucking Blaise Zabini off in the locker room back in seventh year. Gregory didn’t even ask if it was true, just went back to the dorm and jerked off, picturing it as him instead... “Y... you’re... uh... really pretty...” Gregory could slap himself. Draco frowns. “H-handsome. I meant handsome.” Maybe he can blast a hole in the cart door and just jump out right now.

Draco raises an eyebrow and grumbles, “You’re so stupid—I don’t know what I see in you.” Gregory shrugs and honestly can’t blame him. Then Draco hesitates and looks off to the side, seeming to consider, “Well, you did win me that prize...”

“I got us a table,” Gregory offers. Because he’s that lame.

Draco nods. “Yes, you’re a very useful muscle-man, and you mostly do what I say.”

It’s Gregory’s turn to knit his brows together. “I always do what you say.”

“Would you follow me anywhere?” Draco asks.

“Yeah,” Gregory says. Their legs are still touching, and Draco’s so close, less than an arm’s length away. He could reach out right now, and...

“And you’d do anything for me?” Draco asks.

“Yes,” Gregory nods. He always does, doesn’t he? Merlin, if he got any closer he could feel Draco’s breath, and he can already see every individual fleck in Draco’s eyes, every line in his pink lips. The barely-there cleft in his chin, the sweep of his platinum hair, the strong lines of his cheekbones.

Draco’s next words are quieter, and he’s watching Gregory very carefully. “And you want me?”

“Merlin, Draco,” Gregory mumbles, barely able to string together a coherent thought, much less a sentence. “You’re my _world_.”

Every word is true. Gregory hasn’t done anything but follow Draco, and listen to Draco, and want to be with Draco, since they were children, since he could walk. They played together while their fathers left for meetings, they shopped together when Draco wanted someone to carry his bags, they played Quidditch together when Draco wanted to intimidate the other side into losing. Crabbe’s been there too, but never like Gregory has, never like Gregory wants to. He’s never done anything but be near Draco, and honestly, if he didn’t have that, he wouldn’t know who he was. If Draco wound up away with an asshole like Zabini or Parkinson, Gregory doesn’t know what he’d do with himself.

He doesn’t know what to do now. Draco’s looking at him like he wants to be kissed, Gregory’s sure of it. Or his mind’s fucked up from the altitude and the sugar and the proximity to his own personal god. Draco’s hands climb tentatively to Gregory’s shoulders and play with the fabric of his jacket.

Gregory can’t stand it anymore. He lunges forward clumsily, slamming Draco into the side of the cart, and presses their mouths together. He doesn’t dare open his lips or his eyes, just presses into Draco, and Draco’s small and delicate beneath him, lips soft and moist. Draco smells faintly like expensive cologne. Draco tastes sweet. It’s _intoxicating_. Gregory presses into him crushingly hard, can’t help it.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t want to, he just has to, to check that this isn’t a fairy tale.

Draco’s eyes are half-lidded. His lips are slightly parted, slightly swollen, and his pale cheeks are blushing . He looks _fucking gorgeous_ , and Gregory wants to ravish him on the spot, rip all his clothes off and fuck him like an animal.

Draco still doesn’t say anything. Which is unusual for Draco, and Gregory doesn’t know how to take it. They’re both breathing heavily, and Gregory’s more careful when he goes in for the second kiss. He tilts his head so their noses won’t bump, and Draco tilts the other way, and Gregory tries not to press him into the metal. 

This one’s harder. Gregory opens his mouth and pushes his tongue against Draco’s lips, and Draco’s are already a little parted. Gregory slips inside and can taste the sugar there. He can taste Draco, and smell Draco, and he presses in further, trying to eat Draco up. Draco kisses back, and that blows Gregory’s mind. Draco’s tongue battles his, and it’s wet, and it’s heavy. Gregory can’t help it—he’s pulled forward by the gravity that is _Draco_ , pushing against Draco, shoving him up against the metal siding. Draco goes, and Gregory slips a hand around the back of Draco’s head, shielding his skull from the glass. That way, Gregory can grind in as much as he wants, and know Draco’s okay. And he can hold tightly to Draco’s silky hair, keeping him steady and in place. Gregory can feel Draco’s nose breathing against his skin and Draco’s lashes fluttering against his cheek. Draco’s hands rub at Gregory’s chest, scrunching up his fabric and gripping it loosely, then tense. Gregory wants to grab Draco’s shirt and tear it right off. Like his jacket, and his trousers, and his boxers. Gregory presses his whole body into Draco’s, his large, brusque form flattening into Draco’s lithe, smaller frame. Gregory feels powerful and strong, like he could crush Draco into nothing, into him, but he doesn’t want to. He pulls back before it’s too much—before he’s grinded Draco apart.

Draco gasps for breath underneath him, now fisting his jacket tightly. Draco pulls him back in. Gregory kisses him fiercer. Ferociously. Like a beast devouring its prey, and he tries to wedge his knee under Draco. He wants to lift Draco up in his la, and feel their crotches pressed together. Draco’s legs part against him, turning, and Draco’s leg tries to wrap around Gregory’s side, Gregory pushes in and closer. This hikes Draco up, until Draco’s sitting on his thighs, legs parted around Gregory’s torso. Gregory keeps one hand in Draco’s hair and uses the other to rake his blunt nails over the denim covering Draco’s thighs. Draco gasps in his mouth.

Gregory only parts when he has to breathe. He never would, otherwise. He doesn’t want to. He’s frantic and doesn’t want this dream to end—he kisses Draco’s cheek, Draco’s jaw, Draco’s neck. Draco’s fingers run over Gregory’s shoulder, down the top of his back, curl through his hair. Draco pants, “Tell me I’m gorgeous.”

“You’re gorgeous,” Gregory says without hesitating. He doesn’t mock, doesn’t tease. He says, “You’re beautiful,” and kisses Draco’s cheekbone, and Draco scrunches that eye closed. “You’re so sexy.” Gregory kisses Draco’s forehead, and down the bridge of his nose, the tip, Draco’s lips, Draco’s chin. He litters Draco in kisses, wanting to taste every centimeter, feel everything. He maps Draco with his mouth, slobbering all over Draco like a dog.

Draco’s refined and perfect and too good for Gregory, but his breath is throaty and strained. He practically purrs, “Tell me I’ve everything you’ve ever wanted.”

“Always,” Gregory obediently chirps. “Want you so bad—always wanted you—could never get enough of you.” He grinds his hard cock into Draco through the fabric, wanting it all gone, so he can press his dick all over Draco’s perfect body. Draco arches and moans in his arms but still looks at him expectantly, fiery. Gregory gulps and manages to say, “You’re ev... everything I’ve ever wanted...”

Draco kisses Gregory’s cheek. He’s going to explode. But, Merlin, he doesn’t want it to end here. He wants to fuck Draco first, so, so badly, with every bone in his body, with ever fiber of his being. His hand on Draco’s thigh squeezes hard, and Draco bites his lip. Gregory runs his hands up to the bulge in Draco’s trousers— _the bulge_. Draco’s _hard_ , Gregory can feel it. Hard for him. Gregory’s heart is up in his throat, pounding so hard he can barely hear anything of it. He palms at Draco and growls, “I want you so much, want you so bad...”

Draco gasps, “Yes,” and clutches at his shoulders. He’s wanton and wonderful, and couldn’t be any hotter if he tried. He’s wilted too much over the war, after everything, but now, in Gregory’s arms, he flourishes. He arches like a star and purrs like a cat, and growls slickly, “Tell me what you want to do to me...”

“Wanna fuck you,” Gregory says. He doesn’t even think about it. He’s not even sure he’s coherent. He feels like a wild monster, or a bundle of nothing but instincts. His head is useless. “Wanna see you naked, wanna come in your hot body, wanna put my dick in you...” No one ever accused Gregory Goyle of being eloquent.

He can hardly believe it when Draco’s forehead presses against his, and Draco’s bruised, beautiful lips open, to mumble, “Okay.” Gregory’s grinding into him so hard that Draco’s bouncing up and down with the force in Gregory’s lap, his thinner body manipulated like a doll. Gregory’s frantically trying to rub himself off on it, but Draco’s consent makes him almost freeze. Almost. His hips are no longer connected to his brain; his cock is thrusting up of its own accord.

Gregory gulps in more air and pants, “O-okay...?” No way. No way...

But Draco loops one hand around Gregory’s shoulders and slips the other down Gregory’s front. He touches Gregory through the fabric, and Draco’s hand on his cock is the best fucking thing that ever fucking happened to Gregory in his whole fucking _life_. Damn fabric. He hates fabric. It’s in the way, and Draco touches him delicately, while he rams into Draco brutally. “You can fuck me.”

Gregory’s hearing things. He has to be hearing things. He doesn’t care. He grabs at Draco’s belt with lightning quick speed he’s never had before, fisting at the clasp and wrenching it open. He chucks it over his shoulder, hears it bounce off the metal wall, doesn’t care. He wants to look at Draco again—should look—needs permission—doesn’t care. He starts fiddling with Draco’s zipper, and Draco’s fingers shove him out of the way and undo it themselves. Gregory stares at Draco’s hard cock, which springs out, pointing up, smaller than Gregory’s but long, pink and barely veined. So different than his own. Gregory shivers and grabs onto it perhaps a little too tightly, and Draco yelps. His fingers shake as he undoes Gregory’s belt and zipper and pulls Gregory out, too. Gregory’s bigger, hard as hell, thick and veined and purpling and already dripping at the tip. It’s hard for Draco to keep a firm hand on him, since he keeps rubbing them together, but that isn’t enough. Gregory doesn’t even know what comes over him, but he hears his own voice growl fiercely, “Turn around.”

Draco, to Gregory’s shock, does. He topples off Gregory’s lap and tries to turn around in it, which is considerably difficult, with Gregory pressing him so tightly into the side of the cart. One of Draco’s knees is bent in the corner, between the seat and the wall, and the other tumbles over the edge of the bench. Gregory grabs Draco’s trousers and slides them down over Draco’s ass, so his cheeks bulge out, round and soft. Gregory can’t help it, he squeezes them _hard_ , and he moans as the warm flesh mounds between his fingers. Gregory doesn’t fully pull off the trousers, because he likes the way the denim cuts across his ass. Draco has the best fucking ass Gregory’s ever seen, and he wants to throw it over his lap and slap it red.

But he also wants to bury his cock in it, and he presses his dick between Draco’s full cheeks. He rubs into the crack, and Draco writhes against him, palms now flat against the window. He’s got his back curved, ass pressing into Gregory. On a whim, Gregory lifts his hands to rip the leather jacket off Draco’s shoulders, pulling back his arms to a startled yelp, and tosses it aside.

“That was expensive,” Draco growls, rubbing his arms. Gregory thrusts particularly hard into him.

“You’re expensive,” he grunts, nonsensically. Then he moans. “Merlin, your ass...”

He can feel the cheeks squeezing around his cock, and Merlin, does he want to be inside it. But he has more to do and lowers his hands to the hem of Draco’s shirt.

He pulls Draco’s shirt up as far as it’ll go, scrunching it up under his armpits, and Draco makes a surprised squealing noise again. Gregory reaches around his front and finds Draco’s nipples, rubbing them and pinching them between his thick fingers. Draco gasps and grinds his ass back into Gregory’s cock, and Gregory plays with his nipples, lightly tugging and gently rolling them around. He kisses the back of Draco’s neck and mutters uselessly, “Your ass is so hot, you’re so hot, fucking love your nipples, wanna come all over you...”

“You wanna come in me?” Draco asks through laboured breaths.

“Yes, fuck yes,” Gregory pants. “Want my dick in you, wanna fuck you hard and come all inside you...”

Draco moans, “So what are you waiting for?” He bucks backwards against Gregory’s shaft, and Gregory has to use all of his willpower not to come right there.

Gregory doesn’t have much experience. He’s never fucked anyone before, although he’s jerked off quite a lot, and he’s still a man, and he’s watched more porn than he can remember. He’s read every raunchy magazine out there, seen every movie, and he thinks he has an idea, some idea, what to do. But he’s still grateful when Draco says, “G-gimme your wand...” Because if Draco wants to walk him through it, fine. He wants to make it as good as possible for Draco. Doesn’t want to just pound into him. Because he wants Draco to like it enough to let him do it again and again. He never wants to go back to his hand. He fishes his wand out of his pocket and passes it around to Draco’s front. Draco looks over his shoulder to take it, and his cheek are still red, and his grey eyes are half-lidded. He takes the wand and mutters a spell Gregory doesn’t recognize, and then he can feel something wet between his crack. “Put your cock in,” Draco groans.

“Wh...” Gregory takes his wand back and tosses it aside, keeping one hand wrapped around Draco’s stomach. He uses the other to slip down Draco’s spine, in-between his crack. “Should I... er... finger you first, or...”

Draco shakes his head, “Just fuck me, fuck me...” He presses his ass into Gregory’s hand, and Gregory nods. Whatever Draco wants. He never questions Draco. He runs his fingers down Draco’s crack and tries to part those luscious cheeks, until he finds the tiny hole he’s looking for, and he pulls back enough to stare at it. Pink, puckered, furrowed and inviting, it winks up at Gregory, and it’s dripping a little. Gregory presses his finger against it, and it opens easily, like its already been pressed and opened. Gregory didn’t think it worked that way. The muggle videos he’d never tell Draco about used lots of stretching and lube. But the wizard magazines used spells sometimes, and Gregory trusts Draco. So he pulls his hand away and grips the base of his cock, lining it up.

He mumbles, “You’re sure?” just beforehand, just in case.

Draco grunts, “Goyle!” And it sounds so angry and in warning that Gregory instantly obeys. He shoves the head of his cock into Draco’s ass and has to pause immediately to handle his reeling head.

Fucking _Merlin_. It’s fucking tight. It’s fucking great. Draco’s ass squeezes around the head of his dick, pulsating, warm and wet and alive. It’s nothing like how Gregory’s hand has ever felt, or any of the toys he’s used. It’s only a few centimeters in, and he can barely breathe from all the stimulation. Draco’s gasping and whimpering in front of him, pressed against the glass window. Gregory tries to think of ugly things—of his awful cousin Gertrude or McGonagall’s face. But all he can think of is Draco’s great ass, tight around his cock, and he tries so hard not to come.

It takes him a minute or so to breathe before he can go further. Draco’s whimpering both pathetically and erotically, and Gregory tries to push just a little farther in, bit by bit. Draco’s walls clench around him, like they don’t want him inside, but Gregory doesn’t listen, he keeps going. He pistons his hips a bit to try and make it easier, out a centimeter, in two. He keeps going, going, and when he’s finally all the way in, he collapses against Draco’s back, mind blown and body on fire.

He might be crushing Draco with his weight. He doesn’t care. He holds one arm firm around Draco’s stomach, holding Draco tight against him, around him, and Draco’s ass spasms wildly. It feels like he belongs there. Right here. He can’t even move again; he’s too busy being dizzy and headless and overrun with pleasure. Draco whines, “G-Goyle...” and thrusts his hips a little backwards.

“Mm?” Gregory mumbles numbly.

Draco swears unintelligibly and hisses, “Move!” 

Gregory nods over Draco’s shoulder and scrambles to say, “Ahh... y-yeah...”

Then he pulls out and slams back in, with zero hesitation or grace. He does it again, harder, and it slams Draco right back into the metal, and Draco keeps his head to the side so just his cheek hits the glass. His teeth are bared and his eyes are scrunched closed, and Gregory thinks Draco might be in pain, but can’t bring himself to stop; he’s slamming in again. His hips move of their own accord, erratically and strong, and he pounds Draco hard against the glass, humping him so relentlessly the whole cart begins to rock. It sways gently back and forth, and wet, slapping sounds fill the air, and Gregory licks the side of Draco’s cheek, making Draco shiver and flinch. Gregory’s a monster, reduced to mindless fucking. He bites hard into the side of Draco’s neck, and then Draco’s delicate shoulder, and he knows he’s going to leave bruises on that pale skin, and he wants to. He pounds into Draco over and over.

After a few minutes of hardcore rutting, Draco tugs at his hand, and Gregory lets himself be tugged. Draco wraps Gregory’s fingers around his own cock, sandwiched between his stomach and the wall of the cart. Gregory gets the hint and fists it, tugging it. He’s probably too rough about it—his thrusts are too harsh for someone like Draco, someone perfect and high-class, that deserves to be treated better. Draco deserves to be made love to in a luxurious bed, not brutally fucked and fisted in a dirty carnival ride, suspended over a crowd of filthy muggles. But Draco started it, and fuck, he’s going to finish it...

Gregory doesn’t know how it’s even possible, but Draco comes first. He cries out and arches into Gregory, stiffening in Gregory’s arms and shrieking. His cock pulsates in Gregory’s hand, and his cum splatters his bare stomach and the side of the box. It gets all over Gregory’s hand, and Gregory wipes himself off on Draco’s jean-covered thighs, and keeps going. Draco’s orgasm makes his ass tighten deliciously around Gregory’s cock, and it’s easily the best fucking feeling he’s ever felt. The orgasm that rips its way through Gregory’s body is easily the most intense one he’s ever had—it curls in his stomach, tightens his balls, makes him clench his teeth around Draco’s shoulder and his hands fist around Draco’s small body. His thrusts get so hard, he thinks he might split Draco open, and then he’s coming, coming so hard he sees stars. He empties himself in Draco’s tight-as-fuck ass, Draco’s perfect ass, filling it all up. He rides it all out and paints Draco’s insides, and it’s absolutely _amazing._

When he’s finished, he’s a satiated mess, completely covered in sweat and glued to Draco’s back. He has to pull his soft cock out of Draco too soon—Draco’s tight enough to squeeze him to death, leaving no choice. He slumps against Draco, panting so heavily that he can’t close his mouth. He’s still fully dressed, except for his cock, and a thin, white line connects his tip to Draco’s twitching hole.

...And now that he’s looked at Draco’s hole, he can’t look away. It’s blinking rapidly, looking raw and stretched open, and profusely leaking Gregory’s cum onto the edge of Draco’s jeans. Gregory’s never seen anything hotter in his whole life, and he just _stares_.

Draco seems just as spent and utterly content to simply lie there, letting Gregory stare at his used rear.

Until he mumbles, “Move over,” anyway, and he shoves Gregory back. Gregory shuffles along the bench so Draco can lie down. He tries to lie on his back but cries out—his abused ass must be sore, and instead, he rolls onto his stomach, pillowing his head in his arms. His knees are bent in the air, and Gregory stares between them. This gives him an even better look at Draco’s ass. It’s slightly red from being rammed into, except for where the white cream is. Gregory stays slumped against the cart wall and stares as long as Draco will let him.

It’s probably a good five or so minutes later before Draco mumbles, “Okay,” and moves to sit up. He rolls his shirt down, and Gregory mourns the loss of another great view. Draco reaches for Gregory’s wand, since it’s sitting right in view and Draco feels entitled to everything Gregory owns, (which is fine with Gregory) and flicks it gently. He mumbles a familiar, “Scorgify,” and Gregory, dizzy as he is, can’t remember what that’s for.

Then he sniffs at the air when he realizes it smells less like sex. Oh, a cleaning spell. Probably a good thing. Draco sits a few centimeters off the bench to pull up his boxers and trousers and looks over at Gregory with a very pointed, warning look. “You can’t tell anyone about this.”

Gregory nods immediately. No one would believe him, anyway.

Then Draco sniffs and tries to shift in the seat, apparently to get comfortable. His scowl stays in place though, so he’s probably failing. Then he rakes a hand through his slightly sweat-matted hair and asks in an odd mix of snooty and curious, “Was I good?”

“You were fantastic,” Gregory says. And that’s a big word for him to say out loud, so hopefully Draco knows he means it. He tries to show it on his face; he just fucked his own brain out and he thinks he might die of sensory overload.

Draco preens and smirks, “Of course.” He shrugs on his jacket and smoothes out his sleeves, straightening his appearance. Then he looks at Gregory’s cock, and Gregory blushes and belatedly tucks himself back in. Draco raps casually at the glass and mutters, “We should set it to move again.” He looks over at Gregory.

Gregory says, “Uhhh...” Because he wouldn’t know how to fix the Ferris Wheel even if he hadn’t just turned his brain to a puddle of mush. Draco rolls his eyes.

“Honestly,” he growls. But he fishes out his wand and points it out the window at the sturdy metal support beam. He mutters a counter-spell, and their cart suddenly jerks—Gregory lunges forward in time to catch Draco before he topples off. Draco pushes him away and straightens out again, looking oddly normal.

The cart rocks slowly to the ground at the same maddening pace it did before. Gregory wants to say something like, ‘Will that happen again?’ or ‘What did that mean for us?’ But that’s not how their relationship works, so he says nothing and waits.

When their box stops at the bottom, the man who loaded them and several other attendants start spouting large apologies, and they hand Gregory (who steps in front, slightly protective against the crowd of muggles) various coupons and things. Gregory grunts angrily at them, grabs Draco’s sleeve, and marches them off. The muggles they plow through are alternatively sobbing as if traumatized, or staring, blank-faced, in awe.

When they’re sufficiently far enough away, Draco bursts out into laughter. “Did you hear them?” he chuckles. “Those idiots were terrified!” He nearly doubles over with the hilarity of others’ suffering, and Gregory guffaws a bit on instinct.

Draco wipes at his eyes while it dies down, then asks, “What’d they give us?”

Gregory riffles through the tickets in his hands. “Uh... Something about super dogs... some toy thing... ooh, free popcorn!”

Draco rips the tickets out of his hands and grumbles, “The way you talk about food, you would think popcorn’s the best thing here.” Gregory shrugs.

He blurts, “You’re the best thing here.”

Draco looks up, and Gregory instantly feels stupid. His cheeks are red. But Draco simply smirks and says, “Obviously. Anyway, lets go see what this ‘free toy’ is. Maybe it can go with my dragon. I think I’d like a stuffed manticore or something—do you think they have those?” He doesn’t really wait for Gregory to answer and starts mindlessly walking towards the stalls where they won the dragon. Gregory follows and doesn’t have to part the crowd anymore—it’s nighttime and the crowds are finally dying down. “Or a snake—I know I saw one of those. I want both. Well, whichever they won’t give me, you’ll just win for me.” He looks over his shoulder expectantly.

Gregory says, “Of course. I’ll win you everything you want.” He’d move mountains for Draco. He’d swim oceans for Draco. He’d win stupid toys at a fair. It’s only fair, after all.

Gregory already got the best prize.


End file.
